Food

for lunch tonight i had an apple, milk duds, a glass of water, grits, eggs, cheese, delicious! delicious! delicious! it brought back memories of candy apple. pure homily pleasure for your denizen poet's breath to mull over & consider . . . for breakfast i had Caramels, kiwi, and saliva to suck on. . . what fasination i have with 'what else but food.' the things we put in our mouth without hesitations: unfettered, unhampered, gobble! gobble! lick! lick! little plump viginas with hairy urine drenched uteruses . . . in the rough. . . during thanksgiving, Uncle barry 'the blind smiler' took me to WalMart. i had know idea that 'the blind smiler' would exchange currency for many, many, many, buckets of shitty chitterlings (the cavier of Plebian culture) which my step father 'the lion' would have to clean so that the 'queen mother imperial' should liken to season it atop her burn burn oven with: peppers, apple vinegar, salt, all for her oldest boy who secretly hates her upbringing him the way she did in the backwater woods and he never visits enough anymore.
the joy of having cole slaw, chitterlings, hot sauce, potatoe salad, strikes your super poor child with cerebral palsy every time he thinks of such unfashionable eateries on thanksgiving . . . it tickles my giggles and i'll eventually need pshyco convulsive therapy just to jolt back from the land of the 'thunderbolt' and 'shitty gigglies.'
Listen to me my farty denizens. your narrator has never put anything in his mouth that he is ashamed of: from puffy pinky putty cats, to pretty toe feet, public hairs, chocolate girly burly girls, to vanilla blond bomb killers. all the way from stawberry Asian maidens to rasberry cajun haitians.
your dorky denizen narrator has always braved the last brownie from off the floor even and eaten dirt off the bottom of poor cecilian plates with cute italian chickens painted on the face up decoratives. for your eyes and my eyes brown, hazel, half mad blind eyes to squint and take witness.
i don't gain weight at all from this cursed intake of the mouth. bless it be! i don't get fatty fat fat either. not one ounce of the punky stuffing blemishes my godless body and leans pugnaciously on my pitiful African soul. yet to eat is to live and i don't eat what i'm not suppose to eat nor do i drink piss from a clear blue bottle . . . but when i tell a girl who i fancy dearly to put my lobe of life in her mouthy talker i expect her to play along and grab it with rough squeezers and take it into her quick fast sucker.
no questions asked. because your narrator likes it rough from time to time. and a time is ticking before the old fart disease catches up to him dearly and ruffles his feathers the wrong way with viagra . . . but thats not important anymore . . . eat! live! suck! eat some more! die! put it in your mouth! die some more!
well, what do you put in your mouth that makes you who you are my brothers and sisters. what trickles over your tongue into this plebian humanoid world and hearts us all so the way it does. . . feed me brothers. open your legs and feed me sisters. open your mouths and take me and i will take you. give me your beautiful words dear writers and poets and scholars. i lend you my ears. i lend you my soul. i lend you me. i give you my stomach and i will swallow the cold hard truth if it smartens me . . . i have to go now and finish my kiwi and caramel breakfast. . . a breakfast for champions my dear captains! as i sit with my legs crossed ready to go take a shit! shit! shit! shit! shit! shit! shit!